Setting the Table

After that yam dinner at my house, Scootaloo has to jet out (sort of literally) in order to fetch her toothbrush, from... wherever she was staying last. My parents are quite happy to help me help them wash dishes in the meantime. I only get to dry the “resin” cookware though, not the porcelain or glass. Probably a good thing, considering my lack of coordination.

“Big day tomorrow, huh, Sweetie?” Mom says, prompting me to look her direction.

I manage to only hesitate a teeny bit, before forcing out, “Well, me and the Crusaders are going to the clubhouse tomorrow. Apple Bloom kinda had some fish too, and she was sorta upset about it.”

“Oh yeah, well you know how much of a stickler farmers can be,” she says, wryly.

I look at her, still washing dishes as she is, and she briefly flashes me a pleasant smile.

“Not... really?” I say uncertainly.

“She’ll be fine,” mom reassures me. “Maybe it’ll open her eyes that you can eat something besides apples.”

She doesn’t even notice me looking at her a second time, just keeps washing dishes. “They grow other stuff, don’t they?” I ask uncertainly.

“Of course they do, honey,” mom replies, and doesn’t say anything more. They do but it’s... bad? I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with this conversation anymore.

Well, apparantly neither is she, so she says, “Hey, don’t forget about your magic lesson tomorrow. Need you right here after noon. We gotta special surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” I ask nervously. I’m not sure I like surprises, when they could be giant plant monsters.

“Don’t worry honey, it’s nothing bad,” mom says, finishing up and turning off the steaming hot sink water. “I bet you’ll be just tickled pink about it!”

“Hey honey, don’t spoil the surprise just yet!” dad protests, trotting over into the kitchen. “The poor filly already has a hard enough time sleeping, you know?”

“You’re right, sugarplum!” mom says to him apologetically, then cranes her head down to me and says, “It’s nothing special, just a nice opportunity, so don’t you worry.”

“Honey~!” dad whines.

Mom rolls her eyes, “Yes dear,” she drawls, then trots out of the kitchen past him, with a teasing little sway of her hips. ...

“You okay, Sweetiebug?” dad says, looking at me gaping at my own mom’s retreating rump.

“I–I’m fine,” I say hastily, trying to think of what to... oh. “I need to use the toilet though,” I tell him with an appeasing smile.

And as he leads me outside, the more I think about it, the more I really need to go. Jeez, I haven’t peed since back at the lake. Not to mention, my nondescript little bottom is once again making it really hard to hold in. I’m glad there’s at least one sphincter in there! Or... something. I manage not to have any accidents though, and this way I’ll finally have a chance to catch up with Sweetie Belle.

The Belles have a water closet, it turns out. You actually have to walk out into the backyard, and as I do I can see the last of the evening light swiftly fading, with the stars beginning to gleam overhead. I approach a small shed, which has all the amenities: a hole, and toilet paper. It looks like it flushes though, rather than just being a stinky pit of to-be fertilizer, so I’m not sure how the underside of this water closet is engineered. There’s enough room for dad to stand in here, so with just me inside it doesn’t seem cramped at all. And the best thing is, nobody’s going to be hearing me talking to Sweetie Belle in the next room, since this place is its own room!

So, yeah. I stand and brace my legs, lift up my tail and bear down, until that magical feeling wells up in me, that—yeah.

“Sweetie,” I say, pointedly ignoring what my rear end feels like while I pee. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” she speaks up in an unconvincing tone. “You can still hear me, right?”

“Loud and clear,” I half whisper. “Listen, I’m sorry about the tape recorder I didn’t—”

“No, it’s okay,” Sweetie interrupts, “You didn’t know. I wanted to tell you but I was afraid Scootaloo would... hear...”

“Oh good grief, I totally forgot about the knock knock joke!” I say, my head sinking guiltily. “I was supposed to do that. I’m sorry, Sweetie.”

“No problem,” Sweetie says, again in a very unconvincing tone. “But please don’t do it to Scootaloo, I’m... I really don’t want her to think I’m stupid or anything.”

“What, she doesn’t like knock-knock jokes?” I ask, “You’re not stupid, why would she think that?”

“I–I just... I’m just a little shaky because of the song recorder,” Sweetie says, with a noticeable shudder in her voice. “Just... tell my dad it. He loves knock-knock jokes.”

“Okay, Sweetie,” I say with some reluctance. “Might have to wait until Scootaloo leaves though.”

“She’s not back yet, is she?” Sweetie says. “You might be able to make it, if you hurry.”

“Right,” I chirpily reply, reaching for the TP, and fiddling until I get off a square or twelve. One dangerously pleasant, if a bit scratchy, wipe and flush later, and I’m hurrying out of the toilet room as fast as I can. But once I wobble my way over to the doorway into the house in the kitchen, Scootaloo has already returned. She’s already in there talking with my parents.

“I got my stuff, Sweetie!” Scootaloo cheers, as soon as she spots me. Guess I can’t retreat back to the toilet room now.

“Great!” I say with an artificial smile. It turns genuine though, when mom says,

“Why don’t ya foals go upstairs, and get yourselves ready to sleep!”

“Aww,” Scootaloo says in disappointment, but I’m already fumbling past her saying,

“Come on, I want to see how your bed works!”

Scootaloo doesn’t know what to say to that, and we get all the way to the top floor before I start to suspect anything. “Sweetie...” Scootaloo says at the top of the stairs, while I try to collect my wits enough to walk across the hall to my bedroom. “I don’t have a bed.”

“Oh, so you have a sleeping—ugh, hold on,” I say, then carefully walk over to my door, and rear up to get the doorknob. As it clicks and swings open, I say, “So you have a sleeping bag, Scootaloo?”

“Yeah, but, uh, not here?” Scootaloo answers questioningly, stepping in my room, and away from the door so I can get my own powder white butt in there too.

“So, where are you going to sleep?” I ask, looking around my brightly lit room, to see... nothing up here I didn’t see before. Scootaloo has saddlebags, but that’s about it.

“In your bed?” Scootaloo answers, not noticing me freezing in place as she says, “And we’re just gonna mess it up so I don’t see why you have to make it. But if you insist, Sweetie Belle.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I say in forced jollility. “We sleep... in the same bed all the time, right? I mean, it’s totally normal, and not any sort of...”

“Sort of...?” Scootaloo says, peering at me in confusion.

“Never mind,” I answer hastily, stumbling a bit as I try to walk over to the bed. I am so sick of walking, you have no idea. “I never I mean, I don’t remember that we ever slept in the same bed togeth—oh at Fluttershy’s, right.”

Dammit!

“You remember something?” Scootaloo says, getting up close to me in eagerness.

“Yeah, I... remember we stayed at Fluttershy’s cottage once,” I offer warily, “You, me and Apple Bloom. And we all slept in the same bed,” I don’t want to say too much, because I’m not even sure that epsiode actually happened in this time...world...reality.

“Yeah, we all sleep in the same bed over there too,” Scootaloo says in a vaguely interested tone. “I sleep with other ponies a lot, actually, and especially you two. But you’re right, you both have your own bed. So I don’t know if I need my own bed. How would I even get it here?”

“Oh, no no no it’s perfectly fine, Scootaloo,” I say perhaps a bit too eagerly. “We can sleep in the same bed. I was just... surprised.”

Scootaloo blinks at me.

“...even though I remembered us doing it,” I add stubbornly, and I don’t care. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“Well... okay Sweetie, so you wanna make your bed I guess?” Scoots asks appeasingly, trotting to stand beside me, beside the dissheveled looking disarray of a bed with sheets.

“I guess so,” I remark with a hoof tugging uncertainly at the corner of the blanket, “But I really don’t know how exactly.”

“Oh, it’s easy with a friend to help,” Scootaloo says. “You just pull all of the sheets on one by one, and then the blanket, and you make sure it all lines up and pull it tight.”

“Alright,” I say lifting an edge of my sheets, not quite sure what she meant by pulling it.

“Just take a corner in your mouth,” Scootaloo says, biting down on the sheet and pulling up a corner. “Shee?”

“Ohh,” I say in realization, then hesitate, then bite down on a corner myself. All weirdly clothy and slippery, sheets feel a lot weirder in my mouth than food does. Scootaloo jerks my neck forward, when she flaps her corner so that the thin blanket goes flying, leaving my bright green sheet bare.

“Come on, rine it up, Fweetie,” Scootaloo says, side-stepping to the head of my bed and pulling her corner taut. I... shoot, I don’t know how to step sideways. I give it a shot, at least. I lift a hoof and put it sideways. But... do I lift a back hoof now? How do I avoid just falling onto my side? “Fweetie?” Scootaloo repeats.

I just spit out the corner of the blanket, sighing piteously. “I can’t walk sideways yet,” I whine at her sullenly. “I can’t do anything...” I add, more to myself.

“It’s okay, Sweetie,” Scootaloo says consolingly, after rounding the bed to very briefly nuzzle my shoulder. “I can make the bed all by myself, wanna see?”

I have to smile at her, she’s being so nice to me. “Sure,” I say, sitting down while Scootaloo performs her theatrics. Her theatrics involve the bewinged orange filly scampering around the bed animatedly, biting each corner, and tugging it, then smoothing out any wrinkles with a hoof, then doing the same for that thin blanket, the dark green one with the swirly pattern on it. There’s not much else on my bed in terms of sheets and blankets, but then, it is supposedly the beginning of summer here.

“Looks pretty good!” I say honestly, as Scootaloo folds the sheet down to form a lip over the blanket, somehow, with her mouth. She’s pulling it while flipping it? I don’t quite get what I’m looking at, but the end result looks nice.

“Yeah, so now we should talk about our cutie marks,” Scootaloo non-sequiturs, jumping away from the bed and trotting across the room. She sticks her head into her saddle bags and pulls out a box of crayons. “Cash!” she shouts, throwing the box to me. To my credit, it hits my protectively raised foreleg, instead of my face. I smile embarassedly at her, as the crayon box clatters to the floor, but Scootaloo just rolls her eyes.

“I really want to see what you think about our special talents now,” Scootaloo says, trotting my way. “Do you have any paper? I want to draw some ideas.”

“I... maybe?” I say. “I haven’t checked in my bureau dresser yet.”

Turns out, yes there is paper in there! And nothing in terms of clothing. Huh. Anyway, Scootaloo finds the drawer with paper, and then goes and starts drawing a blue circle with her mouth, with little waves in it. “Oh, this is the lake,” I say, as she draws a couple green lines that are trees around it.

“Yeah, now the turtle was right about here,” Scootaloo says, making an X in red. “And we went across the lake like thish,” she draws a loopy sort of horse shoe shape, ending at the shore. “So that was really far,” Scootaloo concludes, “And I don’t know anypony who did that before, so maybe my special talent is waterskiing!”

I have to frown at that. “Didn’t you say that already?” I mention uncertainly.

“Yeah but I mean, maybe my special talent is pulling the waterskiiers,” Scootaloo says eagerly. “Not doing the waterskiing. I was pulling that whole wagon!”

“That still seems kind of specific,” I remark to her reluctantly. This really isn’t good... I don’t want to mess up her cutie mark acquisition process. I don’t even know how cutie marks work, not for real. I’m just a stupid blank flank—well, a stupid human, that doesn’t understand them outside of the show’s brief exposition. I’d love to help her, but... how much of my knowledge can I share? How much of it is legit? What if she suspects me, or I say something that messes her up?

“Well, maybe... I pull other things?” Scootaloo tries, tilting her head to look at me searchingly. “Like my deliveries?”

“Oh, I remember those,” I say to the orange pony. “You were so fast, we couldn’t even think about catching you!”

“Yeah, I suppose I am pretty good at it,” Scootaloo says with a sheepish look on her face.

Then her eyes widen, and she jumps up and stares at her own ass. Blank as the day she was born.

“Guess not...” she says in disappointment, sitting down again. I’d like to... tell her my fan theories, so bad, but I can’t sacrifice her future just for some petty desire of mine.

“You’ll figure it out one day,” I tell Scootaloo encouragingly.

“Thanks... you will too, Sweetie Belle,” Scootaloo says smiling at me. “Even if you have amnesia.”

“Well we’re not—” a yawn fights its way out of my chest, as I say “ge’ing an’ mo’ figured out tonight. Let’s just... go brush our teeth, and then we can work on it in the morning.”

“Right, and you can help Apple Bloom with her little... thing,” Scootaloo says, her purple eyes darting about.

“...thing?” I prompt cluelessly.

“You know... the fish?” Scootaloo says to me in a tense whisper.

“Ohh, that. Do you think she’ll be okay?” I say, now with a trembling worry in my voice myself. “I hope she... I hope they don’t tell her that I’m a bad pony. I–I don’t even like fish all that much, so I’ll stop eating it ever if she can’t be even friends with me, but...

“But what if it’s too late?” I argue with myself, looking at Scootaloo urgently. “What if they think I’m just bad forever, and Apple Bloom hates me because she thinks I tried to trick her into doing something evil? It’s not evil! It’s just life. B-but if ponies aren’t supposed to, but what if I—”

“Sweetie, chill!” Scootaloo says, pushing me back by my cheeks. “You’re even scareder about this than I am!”

“I just don’t want to mess up her friendship...” I tell the orange filly in a more subdued tone, toeing the carpet with one of my accidentally purloined unicorn hooves.

“She wouldn’t do that,” Scootaloo says confidently. “And Applejack wouldn’t do that either! Don’t you remember Apple Bloom’s sister? She’s the nicest most hardest working pony in Ponyville and she won’t tell Apple Bloom you’re bad.”

“How do you know, though?” I ask stressfully.

“Because,” Scootaloo says, as if it were obvious, “You’re her friend!”

...huh?

“I’m Applejack’s friend?” I ask, uncertainly.

“No, Apple Bloom’s friend! You really think that Applejack is going to make her friends turn on each other?” Scootaloo says to me in astonishment. “That’s like, what an evil Applejack would do, from a fairy tale where everypony was an evil villain who did the exact opposite of what they... did.”

“I...guess you’re right,” I say, feeling at least a little relieved at that. “I really don’t want to upset them, though. I hope Apple Bloom telling her is the right thing.”

I pause unsatisfied at that, and quickly add, “Unless she chickens out and doesn’t tell Applejack. Then I hope it’s the wrong thing, because Apple Bloom would be in trouble if it’s the right thing.”

“Apple Bloom trusts you, Sweetie Belle,” Scootaloo says, patting my curls down with a hoof. If only Scootaloo knew who she was talking to, she’d never say that in a million years... “She’ll tell her sister,” Scootaloo says confidently. “We just have to all talk—” she pauses to yawn too. It’s contagious...

“...tomorrow,” Scootaloo finishes, rubbing at her eyes.

“C’mon, let’s go... tooth brushing thing,” I tell her sleepily. “That’s at least one thing I can do by myself.”

The tooth brushing is spent in silence, and mom comes to check on us again, but by then we’re both pretty much dead on our feet. That trip to the lake really took a lot out of both of us. Especially Scootaloo, who did all the hard work. So I clamber up onto my bed, and try to slip under the covers without messing up Scootaloo’s handiwork too badly. And Scootaloo just rumples them up and crawls under them, poking her head out after she turns around... in my bed.

Mom gives both of us a good night kiss on the forehead. I should be jealous, but I can’t help but wonder who would give Scootaloo good night kisses, if not for other ponies’ parents. She sure doesn’t seem to have parents of her own. Ward of the court, I think it’s called? I really wish I could ask her more about it, without worrying about upsetting her.

But with that, we’re left alone, embraced with the quiet darkness of an unlit bedroom. I settle back into my pillow, and just let myself drift off. That’s exactly what I do. I’m not going to dwell on the fact that this is literally the first time since I was 5 years old that I’ve ever been allowed to sleep together with someone in the same bed. And now it’s with a pumpkin orange pony, with a purple mane and tail, and the cutest little wings, completely naked.

The sheets are so soft against my body, and I can’t relax, because i know Scootaloo is like, right over there. It’s just so forbidden. She doesn’t even know I’m thinking about her that way! It’s so amazing to be like this close to her, to actually have someone to sleep with. I really want to just... just grab Scootaloo and hug her tight, and... have sex I guess? I’m not going to even think about doing that, but it still makes me wiggly, and makes it hard to sleep.

So I have to lie there for... a while. I lie there, totally exhausted, but wanting to relieve some stress in a different way than just laying still, if you catch my drift. And then Scootaloo—well, Scootaloo is already asleep. Her soft snores start to fill the room. And then she shifts in her sleep, and her hoof comes to rest right on my chest. I can feel her warm, living, real arm pressed right against me. I don’t dare move I—I never want this to end. I feel like crying and laughing at the same time. My favorite purple haired orange pegasus is here, her hoof vaguely wrapped around me. I can feel her. I just hug her just a teeny bit closer to myself, before I finally relax enough to drift off to sleep.

Later I’m wandering through Ponyville, and just reflecting on what it means to be Sweetie Belle. Not in the high minded philosophical sense, but in the way my legs move under me, and in the perkiness of my surprisingly responsive tail; in my unexpected femininity, not to mention my unexpected fuzziness. My new fur doesn’t stop the sunlight from warming my back, though it moves faintly in the pleasant breeze blowing across me. I know this’ll make me even more perverted to say, but being able to walk around naked outside is awesome. I suppose it’d be worse if I had to worry about sunburn. But I don’t! I don’t have to worry about anything, because...

Even the pleasant feeling of being naked outside on a sunny day pales in comparison to the pleasant security I feel in being ignored. I’m a naked girl, a cute little pony girl, and absolutely nobody gives a fuck. I can walk my bare ass from Rarity’s boutique to Sugarcube Corner, and no one, no pony gives me a second glance. Yes, it’s deeply unsettling—no pun intended—that I have a place in me, that’s quietly receptive toward the idea of getting fucked into next weekend. But... I don’t have to look at them, and they don’t have to look at me, if none of us wants to. There’s just something really cool about how this is just—normal!

I make my way into the famous sweet shop, and Pinkie Pie is there, going about her madcap antics as usual. But then I see Scootaloo and Apple Bloom, my friends sitting at a table, with two milkshakes just like I remember them from the show. I smile in recognition and trot up to them, and they smile back, greeting me gladly. I can’t really understand them though, but it’s just nice being around these two. The CMC were always my favorite ponies, and not just because they were underage. They just had this great dynamic, a Three Stooges sort of thing going on. They’re the pony equivalent of the Powerpuff Girls, and who wouldn’t be impressed by that?

But no, it’s weirder than that, since I hate the Three Stooges, and I find the Powerpuff Girls kind of vapid and unentertaining. And yet these ponies, these three little foals with uninspired names like Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo, for some reason they are really easy to identify with. We’re three fillies caught in a world that’s just one great big adventure, surrounded by heroes larger than life, while we just try to figure out our place in the world.

And of course... three fillies ready to discover their budding sexuality, in a way a man could only admire, but never understand. Apple Bloom leans forward, pushing her drink aside, and it looks like she’s got something really juicy to tell me. I find myself blushing deeply, because I was thinking about her in that way. You know what they say about rednecks, after all. No I’m horrible I know, but it’s amazing how people took that family, and made something as disgusting as backwoods incest into something shockingly beautiful, a love for each other like no other.

There is no way that’s actually true. This filly is about as molested as a rock. Apple Bloom seems disappointed that I’m disappointed, and Scootaloo just laughs it off.

Scootaloo, well... she’s a young girl, active, passionate and aggressive. Most artists have a hard time wrapping their head around her sexually, but when they don’t make Scootaloo “mini-dyke” it can get pretty powerful. I wonder if lolidom is a tag. Foaldom maybe? And Scootaloo’s really blushing too, now. I must have slipped and told her out loud or something, but she really deserves it. People think she’s just comic relief, but the potential and depth Scootaloo has, even just in her complex relationship with that scooter, makes some silly farm pony and “the younger sister” look clownish in comparison.

No, not using her scooter in that way. How would that even work?

Come to think on it, in my lonely, sex deprived exploration of all the spectrum of pony art, I don’t think I remember seeing Scootaloo grinding one out using her scooter. Scootaloo doesn’t want me to feel bad about myself just for thinking of that, because I had no chance at happiness or satisfaction back then, so who cares if my fantasies were weird and depraved? Now, like this, I can do so much, it’s hard to even know where to start! But back then, I couldn’t do... anything. I just had no opportunity my entire life, until I got too old and just gave up trying.

Apple Bloom doesn’t want me to feel sad either, so I assure her that I’m just thinking about something sad in the past, and I’m really happy right now. Just being able to sit in this classroom, just like any of the other foals, it’s solid gold to me. I can’t explain it, but it just is. Though, up in front of the chalkboard, Miss Cheerilee looks a lot bigger and more intimidating when I’m small like this, and—oh my gosh, oh no.

I completely missed the lesson!

I pull out my notebooks, but they’re just—blank, since I haven’t written in them yet. Were we studying geography? Why didn’t I take any notes? What were we just—

Cheerilee puts a hoof on my shoulder, and I look up about ready to die from shame. But she’s not angry she’s... smiling at me? She’s reassuring me that all is well Sweetie Belle, and I didn’t miss anything. I’m so glad I—I didn’t miss it. I promise Miss Cheerilee enthusiastically that I will pay so much attention to everything she says from now on, but she just laughs it off as but a trifling concern, because it’s okay for me to be this way. It’s okay for me to... be this way.

That thought sticks with me, as I return to the waking world. My eyes are bleary, but my nose is clear, and my shoulder blades or... whatever I have back there now are loose and spry, rather than constantly, achingly stiff and sore. I’m not a doomed human anymore; I’m a healthy young unicorn with her whole life ahead of her. I’m laying on my side, and my volumnuous tail is swishing under the covers behind me. I can even—I can even tent them up a little bit, just by moving my own tail. Hell if I know why, but I love tails.

That was a dream? It had to have been. I’m not in a classroom anymore. I’m just here waking up in my bed, with a sleeping Scootaloo cuddled up right against me, and the grey morning gleaming in through the indigo drapes of my window, spread wide. It must have been a dream, but... it wasn’t a nightmare! Wow is that a nice change of pace. Oh, but I also had that... dream about the Polar Express too, so I guess this is my... second good dream in Equestria?

Once again, I didn’t see the princess in my dream, so maybe... she couldn’t find me, to attack my dream people and give me a nightmare? No, that can’t be right. Princess Luna was fighting the scary things, even if it was for Sweetie Belle’s sake. She was not causing them! I guess she just doesn’t need to show up for nice dreams. Boy, I hope Luna doesn’t have to spend all of her time in other pony’s nightmares. That would be just—

SCOOTALOO CUDDLED UP RIGHT AGAINST ME

She—she wasn’t cuddling me when I went to sleep! Was she? I–I think she was touching me, maybe? I look down the orange filly’s back, all curled up against me so cutely, with my cute little hoof snugging around behind her. I can feel her breathing against me, and her head is resting right under my chin, cheek pressed against my shoulder. Did I do this? Did she do it? Is she gonna be upset with me if she wakes up? Or with herself? She said she wasn’t a cuddly pony! But I can’t... I can’t make myself pull away. It feels so good to touch her warm, living body, feeling her chest slowly rise and fall. It really drives home that she’s here with me, really really here, and not some character sealed behind a television screen in a world of fiction.

So I just sort of... continue to pretend to sleep. It’s so perfect, I could even sort of discreetly slip my thigh in between her legs if I wanted. Hugs are so much more intimate when you don’t have clothing walling you off from each other. I mean, I sort of do want to, but it’s also kind of scary and unnerving, because she could do that to my cooch if she wanted! I shouldn’t be so anxious about touching that stuff... I mean really, am I a sex fiend or aren’t I? But it’s like... the first time I ever had one, and... it’s not just that I have girl parts between my legs. They’re inside me like—yes it’s physically inside me, but it feels like a part of me, and yes it is physically a body part, but...

It just feels more... feels deeper than something I can just strap on and take off.

I try to remember what it’s like getting an erection. Thinking about that only makes me want to shove stuff in my butt. Yep. I guess that’s the most basic litmus test for whether you’re a girl or a boy. Except for the gay. I really don’t understand the gay.

I guess I really am... I mean I literally am a girl, but I don’t want to think I can... I may be a girl, but it’s just not right for me to enjoy these things. This is Sweetie’s cooch, not mine. I shouldn’t have any choice or... or power to shove anything up any vagina. It’s just my stupid perversion, making me think about what I could, instead of what I should. I’d be lucky if some girl ever deigned to let me anywhere near her nether area. I’m supposed to just have my penis and shut up about it. But I mean...

I never actually got to use the thing my whole freaking life. Maybe if I did, then I would be sadder at its loss, and not so darned... tickled about having girly bits. Everyone back then was so hostile to me for wanting to have sex; they didn’t consent, so I’m supposed to somehow not have any desires towards them, or I’m a monster. Is it any question that I might not miss being saddled with that burden? Why would I miss something I never even got to use?

So it’s with no moral compunctions that I hug Scootaloo closer to me and... subtly nestle my upper leg right in between her own. I don’t even care I just—I just don’t want to feel like it’s horrible for me to touch people. She doesn’t even... she shifts against me, and murmurs something, then falls asleep again. I can totally feel her soft pony vulva against my furry thigh. That’s so... cool! And... not... particularly arousing.

I would have more chance to think about that, but as a fellow 8 year old foal, I end up falling asleep with Scootaloo right then and there. And when I wake up again, we’ve separated. Scootaloo’s sitting on her side of the bed, up on her haunches, looking at me with a nervous fondness.

“Morning... Scootaloo,” I say, hesitantly pushing myself up by my forelegs.

“Oh good you’re up,” she says with an easy smile. “Let’s see if we can both go down and get your parents to make some breakfast!”

“Are they awake yet?” I ask, looking out at the indirect sunlight, unable to see the sun from this angle. It looks like my room must not be facing east.

“I dunno,” Scootaloo says informatively, turning an ear toward my door. I can sort of hear some movement way down there, as my ears are already pointing in that direction.

“Well, if they aren’t awake, then maybe we could make some breakfast—” I start to say, but Scootaloo interrupts,

“No!” putting a hoof on my chest and looking at me with alarm.

“No,” Scootaloo repeats calmly, “We can just wait then, and you don’t have to cook at all.”

I stare at her uncomprehendingly. Then, with growing comprehension, my face goes flat.

“I’m not that bad at cooking, am I?” I ask her.

“Wha҉t?!” somepony exclaims in my voice. Sweetie Belle exclaims, if that’s not clear, and I try to pantomime her reaction, adding to it my own words,

“...arrrre you talking about?”

Scootaloo gives me a pained expression. “Sweetie, you... you remember the burned juice don’t you?” Scootaloo asks pleadingly.

I blink at her. “I thought that was a... you really can burn juice?” I ask, somewhat stunned that that’d be reality.

“Well, you can burn sugar,” Scootaloo said uncomfortably, “I never said anything because you said your sister liked it, and I don’t know I didn’t want you to cry or anything. And you thought at the time that the sugar would get unburnt in the lemonade, so you... yes.”

I look at her warily. “I don’t suppose I made ...liquid toast?” I ask. I think I can hear Sweetie whimper... oops.

“I... didn’t see that,” Scootaloo announced, fluttering her wings in a dissatisfied manner, “But uh, the juice was enough.”

“It’s fine,” I assure her, “We’ll just wait. Or make something without cooking.”

“I dunno if we’re supposed to,” Scootaloo says, glancing at the door. “They always make the breakfasts and meals. Your parents, I mean.”

“Nonsense,” I say with confidence. “I am sure I made food for my sister all on my own, and the only problem is it was... burnt, a little.”

“Cooking is hard,” Scootaloo said definitively. “It takes a lot of practice, and stuff. You should have seen the one time Apple Bloom tried making cupcakes!”

“Oh, with Pinkie Pie?” I recall, remembering my dream.

“Uh... I guess?” Scootaloo said. “That was when we met her, actually! Apple Bloom, I mean. But... all I know is that the cupcakes were all salty and burnt, and she apologized for it.”

“Cupcakes are harder to burn than cakes,” I mention to the filly. “Because they’re smaller, so the insides get hot faster. With cakes, if you take it out too early, the inside is still batter.”

“Huh... that makes sense,” Scootaloo says thoughtfully. “And it also makes me hungry. So let’s go downstairs!”

“Okay, hold on,” I say, fiddling around until I’ve got my legs dangling over the edge of my bed. Then I descend onto my haunches, and... hm...

“Actually... you go on ahead,” I tell her glumly. “I’ll be down a bit ...slower.” Sigh.

Scootaloo doesn’t have to be told twice. She goes trotting out of my room and down the stairs, while I fiddle around there on the rug, getting my hooves under me and all. I hardly know which hoof to put where. It seems that it’s harder to walk after I wake up, I suppose since I haven’t been practicing it for a while. But... I’m definitely getting better! Maybe a little better. I just hope this improvement doesn’t plateau out. After taking a moment to refamiliarize myself with my new body, I step forward, with the same hoof that I always do, and then Sweetie accuses me,

“Why did you say my cooking was bad?”

Oh. Oops.

“Everyone’s cooking is bad at... um... at first,” I backpedal to her, less than confidently. “Plus you don’t have your magic yet, so carrying knives and... stuff is hard?”

“I guess,” she says in a dissatisfied tone.

“Did you really make liquid toast?” I ask.

“I um... you saw that, huh?” Sweetie admits, with a nervous gulp. I touch my own throat with a hoof, and it doesn’t feel like I just gulped, but maybe I’m just not perceiving it?

“It got too crunchy in the toaster,” Sweetie explains guiltily, “I just thought I could soften it up a bit. And it took a lot of water to soften it up, so I put it in a bowl... but it wasn’t that bad, was it? Mom said I was gonna be a fancy chef or... or maybe it was my special talent!”

“It was pretty bad, from where I saw it,” I tell her honestly, pausing on my way across the bedroom to speak, “But maybe what I saw wasn’t right. It’s like those people who were drawing Rarity more and more surprised at uhm... Trenderhoof ignoring her, so maybe they drew your t-toast looking more worse than it really is?

“I don’t know what’s scarier,” I admit, upon finally reaching the dresser with my mirror and my hair brush, and fur brush. There’s an odd tightness in my chest, and my eyes are tearing up for some reason. “That my show was actually accurate,” I ponder, “Or that it actually makes sense how you could mess up toast so... bad.”

Why am I telling this to her? I’m so stupid. I’m just upsetting her, just like I always do. “I’m sorry,” I whimper at the sound of her sniffling cries, “I didn’t mean it. Your... your cooking is fine I’m sure and—”

“So what, you’re going to lie to me too?” Sweetie says angrily.

“No!” I retort angrily, “I just—” and it occurs to me that... hm...

“I can’t believe everypony was lying to me,” Sweetie says in a troubled tone. “Even Scootaloo! And... and even mom said I was good at...”

I take in a shuddering breath, trying to keep myself as measured and calm as an 8 year old girl can be. I manage to clumsily draw the brush through my tail, which helps a little. And... I think I may literally know how Sweetie Belle feels right now. “You don’t even care if your cooking is bad,” I say in realization, “You just didn’t want ponies lying about it!”

“Well—yes!” Sweetie says, “How am I supposed to know, if they don’t tell me? Don’t they care about me?”

I gotta help somehow. This is the worst way to wake up. “They just didn’t want to hurt you,” I say, “Peo—ponies think that it hurts you more to say that you messed up, than to tell you the truth.”

“Well, it doesn’t,” Sweetie grumbles resentfully.

Something else grumbles resentfully.

I pause in combing out my tail, to look at my woefully empty tummy. “I wanna talk more, but uh...”

“Yeah, let’s go eat,” Sweetie says accedingly. “I’ll feel bett—I mean, we’ll feel better after you eat. Plus maybe you can tell somepony that knock-knock joke!”

“Oh, right!” I say in recollection. I totally hadn’t forgotten all about it, honest. “Maybe I’ll tell it to Rarity,” I say with a little giggle.

Sweetie finds it amusing, saying, “I bet she would laugh. She really likes my jokes—I mean... I think she likes my jokes.”

Sweetie seems disgruntled as she finishes saying that, and I’m kind of sobered up too, if for no reason other than because I’m not used to freaking giggling like a little girl, whenever I find something funny.

“Comedy is harder than cooking,” I remark all philosophically. “Because people still won’t tell you if they really like it or not, and with comedy you can never use the same recipe twice.”

Sweetie doesn’t comment.

“But... anyway... um, let’s go eat.”

“Wait, what about my mane?” Sweetie prompts just as I turn to head off. I pull back, taking a moment to look at it in the mirror. There I see those messy, colorful curls hovering above a young unicorn’s cute little face. It’s so intriguing how neatly the pink and purple colors in my mane separate into locks like that. They must come out with the colors growing together, and resist getting hopelessly intermingled somehow, further on down the line.

I wonder how much of my mane is attached to my head like a mohawk. It’s kinda funny. Every equine on Earth has a mohawk for a mane, and the show creators were really good at concealing that every pony’s hair also attaches like a horse, while still making it the truth. Even the figurines just have one row of hair! Lifting the curls in my hoof, I pfuffle at it with a hoof curiously, trying to see under...

“Oh, um, sorry,” I say distractedly, tearing myself away from gazing at my own hair. “It looks fine,” I tell her, blushing despite myself, “And... I can’t really get the brush up there on my head.”

“You can just ask somepony downstairs,” she tells me practically.

I hook the brush neatly into my tail hairs and wiggle around to face the door to the stairwell. I’m definitely getting better at turning around! Or at least, more familiar with the tedious process of finding things to grip on that I can use to rotate myself around to face the way I want to. It’s without incident that I lope my way across the floor watching my hooves as they go, and then carefully begin to climb down the stairs. Just like Ace showed me.

Downstairs is a pleasant scene. Mom is in the kitchen, with what look like hash browns sizzling on a frying pan, and what looks like a bottle of ketchup floating in her blue magic. And Scootaloo’s there looking in the frying pan with interest. (She can just barely see over its edge.) Actually that looks kind of dangerous.

“So um, how about we set that table?” I speak up, startling Scootaloo into looking my way.

“Alright, Sweetie,” she says, moseying over to me and looking over at the table. “I guess we need plates, and napkins, and... do you use a fork?” She blushes for some reason then, and says, “Oh sorry, uh, right.”

Hoof to my chest, Scootaloo orders, “You handle the forks. I’ll get the plates and the napkins.” She trots off then to accost my moth...er... to accost Sweetie’s mother, demanding permission to let Scootaloo balance fragile porcelain disks on her wings. Mom is suspiciously accommodating to that, and sure enough, it turns out Scootaloo can balance things really well on her wings. She actually turns sideways as she trots over to the table, so that side swipes of her wings quickly slip plates off her back and onto their places.

My slack jawed stare at that is interrupted by dad levitating a couple of forks wrapped in cloth napkins down to my face. Uh... napkins? Me? Are we really going there? ...When in Rome I guess?

I carefully bite down on the roll of napkins, and his sparkly magic leaves its surface, so I guess this is what I was supposed to do. I try not to shamble on my way over to the table, and admirably, I succeed in walking in a straight line without disaster. I carefully place the napkin assembly on the table, and look around for... confirmation or something? Both my parents...

Both my parents are watching me encouragingly. Great.

Wordlessly I just... try whatever I think a pony would do. I stick my face in the napkins and use my nose to unroll them, then a fore hoof to slide them one by one across the table, beside each plate. They’re not nearly as icky as they should have been for being in my mouth. I guess ponies have special mouth glands or... something that only get wet when not carrying things? It’s a really cool thought, but I haven’t really taken the time to examine my own mouth closely enough to verify there’s any strange shenanigans going on.

Belatedly it occurs to me that maybe I should have used my horn to unroll the napkins, rather than my nose. The former is a lot less blunt and squishy than the latter. But I dunno, it’d feel weird doing that, like I was trying to poke holes in the napkins or something.

My nose strategy works anyway, and... now that mom is levitating over sizzling hash browns one by one to each plate. I have to admit, even the simple act of setting a table has a certain novelty to it, when you’ve never done so in your current body before. It’s even more novel when you get to watch the food literally floating onto the places you’ve set. There’s just so much I have that I can learn about this world. Every moment is so precious. I hope I won’t have to... leave...

“Tell me when, Sweetie,” dad says, squirting ketchup on mine, Scootaloo’s, mom’s and then his hash browns. Heck—I’m so new to this world, I don’t even know when to say when! But I just go with how I liked those things back on Earth, and get just a teeny little touch of ketchup. Immediately, I start eating it before it can soak in and make them soggy. It’s kind of messy, but definitely something an eight year old girl would do. (A little strange to see a full grown man doing it I suppose.) I’m certainly not ringing any alarm bells in anyone’s eyes, so I just keep leaning my head forward and picking up the edge of the oily, crackly square in my mouth, biting off a piece and sitting back to chew it blissfully. Scootaloo is chowing down right along with me, two relatively messy mouth-eating fillies. And boy are these are delicious. They don’t stop being crisp on the outside, while remaining meaty and grassy on the inside. They’re a perfect contrast to the sublime sweetness that is ketchup.

I wonder if there’s anything I used to like, that doesn’t taste good anymore. Strong cheese, perhaps.

Scootaloo finishes first, which is impressive considering she eats about twice as many flapjacks as I do. We’re cleaning up dinner, and she’s so excited and eager to just get outside, that it’s catching on me too. The two of us get cleaned up and ready, and head out to Scootaloo’s wagon and scooter. I feel a laugh bubble up inside me, just as soon as the sunlight hits my face, and I don’t... know how to feel about that. Scootaloo gets the wagon ready, while my parents wish me and her good luck, and make me promise to brush my mane when I get to the clubhouse.

“Be sure ta brush your mane when you get to the clubhouse,” are my dad’s literal words. So I ask him,

“You mean, have my friends brush my mane?”

That gives him enough pause to blink, before he smiles and says, “You got it, Sweetie. That’s the sort of thing friends do for each other! Starting to remember, huh?”

“Just a lucky guess,” I respond shyly. “I could brush another pony’s mane a lot easier than my own.”

He nods confidently, saying, “Well, whatever works, you do that. Your mother and I are both rooting for ya.” I wish I could share his confidence, but it’s hard to be sure of yourself when everyone is just so much bigger than you. I shrink back from him not sure if I should do anything to thank him, so I just start hobbling over to the wagon. That feels... wrong, somehow, and when I climb in the wagon, and pull myself up over its lip to look back, he’s still looking my way. I start to get out again to ask what’s wrong, but he just shouts, “Don’t forget your lesson this afternoon!”

“Okay, dad!” I shout back, waving to him with what I hope is a genuine looking smile. He smiles and waves, then turns smoothly on a hoof to walk back inside the house.

“You ready, Sweetie?” Scootaloo says, drawing my attention.

“Hum? Oh, yes I—” I notice Scootaloo’s wearing her helmet. “Just one sec,” I tell her, nervously hunting around in the wagon. Hunting might be the wrong word, because there’s not much in this wagon besides my round green helmet, and me. Sitting back on my haunches, I hook the bowl of the helmet in my hoof. “Rea—” I almost shout, clapping it onto my head, but then say, “No wait! I need to fasten it...”

Scootaloo stops revving up and sticks a hoof out to balance herself, looking back at me.

It can’t be all that difficult to fasten these helmets. You just push the two pieces together, and... get a friend to pull it tight if need be. I just have to line them up right. Darn it, I almost had it!

“Here, let me,” Scootaloo says, reaching for my chin strap.

“No!” I tell her, twisting away from her hoof. “I want to do this myself. I’m not just a useless little...” I was going to say filly, but I don’t know if it’s weird for fillies to call themselves not fillies. “...pony,” I finish kind of lamely, as it finally snaps closed under my chin.

“I could use some help pulling it tight though,” I add shyly. In a flash, Scootaloo has it snug against my chin, and she spits out the strap, then pats my helmet, saying,

“No problem, Sweetie. You’re all set!”

Then Scootaloo swivels lithely to jump onto her scooter, engaging her wings almost immediately, and pulling me and the wagon along with her. I watch our house pass by, then diminish swiftly into the distance, as Scootaloo takes us on the route that I last saw Scootaloo and Apple Bloom go on alone. Away from the town, along the tree line we travel. Trees that are quickly dominated by apple trees, with tiny little red and green apples growing all over them.

“This is Sweet Apple Acres!” I shout at the trees whizzing past.

“That’s where we’re going!” Scootaloo remarks without turning around. “You’ve already been to the clubhouse, remember?”

“I remember, just... it’s really exciting!” I call back to her. “I can’t believe I’m really—” here. I can’t tell her that. “I just really like Applejack’s farm,” I tell her. “It’s so...” Peaceful? Potentious? Impossible? Fruitful?

“Fru҉itful!” I try. Doesn’t sound quite right. Oh well.

I hardly even see the turn, as Scootaloo pulls us around, to travel down a shaded path amid the trees. The apple trees surround us like a corridor, as we swing down a hill and are immediately embraced by the orchard. It’s even more beautiful than I remember the last time. It’s just... it’s just apple trees. Nothing special about them. But they’re apple trees grown by ponies and that’s about as special as you can get! Plus they taste incredible. I can even sort of smell them down here. An earthy, appley scent that pervades most of the acres.

And there, among these ordinary apple trees, is a familiar if incomplete building. One wooden wall is complete, with support beams in place for the other three, currently holding up the roof. The roof being a plain frame at this point of thick wood, covered with a tarp of some sort, tied down on the edges by tense ropes. I... really want to see this thing completed. It’ll look so amazing when it is. A secret clubhouse out on an isolated corner of the farm, a building that we made not just—

A building that the CMC made, and not just one they were given to live in. I think that’s the greatest thing about clubhouses, is that they’re yours to do what you want with it, and when you’re a little kid, real estate is sort of hard to come by. I had a... clubhouse I was allowed to use once, but I guess it wasn’t really mine. I couldn’t decide to do anything with it or decorate it or anything. My father was... curiously conditional in his generosity.

The wrestling stage is still there, but the posts and ropes are gone, and on it is standing a yellow and red filly known as Apple Bloom, waiting for us. She does not look happy. Oh boy I have to tell her about fish now. I wish I was piloting this scooter, because then I’d just run away and deal with it in... some... way that doesn’t involve inexorably approaching Apple Bloom and coming to face my own screw up. But I’m not piloting the scooter, and I guess it’s probably a good thing. I eye the yellow and red filly up there guiltily, as Scootaloo pulls the wagon up alongside the wooden platform, shouting “Hi, Apple Bloom!” and jumping right off her scooter up onto the platform.

“Hi Scoots,” Apple Bloom says amiably, then turns to regard me evenly.

“Sweetie Belle,” she says, less... amiably.

I shrink blushing back into the wagon, managing to squeak out, “Did it... go bad?”

“No,” Apple Bloom says looking at me very seriously. “It went real good actually.” She isn’t saying that in a happy way though. What on earth went wrong? “Applejack said she was gunna tell the boat pony a thing or two,” Apple Bloom continues in conflicted tones, slowly getting her face in mine as she gets more excited and comes forward, “An’ maybe even get her written up, and Applejack told me she caint get mad at me, for somethin’ ah ain’t meant to do, and she’s glad ah told her right away!”

“What’s the problem then?” I ask in total confusion. “She did just what I said she would!”

Apple Bloom seems to pick up on my distress, and stops leaning down at me, but still giving me a wan look from up there. What does she want me to do? I can’t—

“Well don’t just sit there,” Apple Bloom exhales out with a sigh, holding out a forehoof for me to hook. “Come on up, and join the rest of us! We needta talk.”

I’m getting really conflicting signals here, but I don’t know—I really don’t want to upset her even more. I reach my arm forward and hook my hoof in hers, the yellow pony pulling me up right out of the wagon. She doesn’t yank me up here. I use my other hooves to climb up onto the stage while she pulls, until all four of my hooves are softly planted on the flat red floorboards, looking levelly over at the filly who’s clearly upset with me. I’m standing here on the edge of the platform, with Apple Bloom more towards the center, and Scootaloo beside her. Apple Bloom faces me right back, with her tail down, and a reluctantly nervous look in her eyes, her amber eyes full of tales.

“Ah gotta lotta questions for you, Sweetie!” Apple Bloom declares at me, in a curiously hurt tone, her yellow fuzzy ears half down, and bright red tail swishing behind her.

“Um, okay?” I ask my fellow upset pony, because I’m getting pretty upset too. “What can I um... what questions?”

“See?” Apple Bloom exclaims exasperatedly to Scootaloo, turning to look at her pleadingly, and waving a hoof at me. “That’s what ah’m talkin’ about!” wat?

“Oh, I guess so,” Scootaloo says mutedly, giving me a wary look herself, while I stare at her in astonishment, and at the side of Apple Bloom’s pleasantly yellow head. What the jiminy gravy is going on here?!

Apple Bloom swings her head back to face me and says, “Sweetie Belle, ah don’t think you been entirely truthful with us,” just in time for my gut to sink back behind me, along with my tail drooping down below the edge of the stage.

“Ah think you ain’t just got amnesia,” Apple Bloom remarks ominously, taking a step forward. “You also got somethin’ instead of all those memories you lost.”